An Old Man's Eyes
by bloodywingtips
Summary: "Life doesn't count by the years. Some suffer a lifetime in one day, and so grow old between the rising and the setting of the sun" ~Jane Augusta Evans


Disclaimer: I do not own HP or any of its characters  
  
  
  
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An Old Man's Eyes  
  
"Life doesn't count by the years. Some suffer a lifetime in one day, and so grow old between the rising and the setting of the sun."  
  
~~Jane Augusta Evans  
  
Hermione  
  
His eyes were beautiful. I absolutely adored them. They were the largest, most surprisingly innocent eyes I have ever seen. They have been graced with enlightenment, and plagued by death and utter destruction.  
  
But those eyes no longer exist. They have been replaced by the lifeless, hollow orbs somehow planted in his eye sockets. They are cold, unfeeling, unflinching, determined. Always determined.  
  
That glint of humor they used to possess has been pushed aside by the glimmer of determination. The glimmer of a soldier's eyes. The glimmer of the eyes of a man who has gone off to war and back, somewhat hoping that he hadn't.  
  
They are scarred. The mirthful character they possessed no longer exists. As if it never did. His eyes are like calloused hands-cracked, peeling, and tired. They have seen too much, and they couldn't possibly see more.  
  
He never talks now, not much. He doesn't smile, either. He sits in some isolated corner and stares at the wall for hours on end. We talk to him, and he doesn't seem to hear a thing. He nods, and stares blankly at the empty space.  
  
And, nothing hurts me more than seeing him like this, nothing more than an empty shell, a little reminder of the friend I had, but never will.  
  
He's my best friend.  
  
He's my ally.  
  
He's Harry James Potter, the Boy Who Lived.  
  
And the Boy Who Lived, once again, managed to live, after another alarmingly close brush with You-Know-Who.  
  
And, it's killing him.  
  
It's in his eyes.  
  
It eats at him slowly, slowly, like a murderer biding his time. He's lost, and he's falling. He's hurt, but he can't be hurt. He has to be strong.  
  
It's in his eyes.  
  
He has to be strong, not for himself. Not for us, his friends. He has to be strong, for the entire wizarding world. He has to be strong for the world that has put its fate in his hands when he was no more than one year old.  
  
It's in his eyes.  
  
He's desperate, hopeless, trapped forever in a situation he doesn't have any control over.  
  
It's in his eyes.  
  
In that one, single moment when he heard his parents' voices in his head, their last second of life, he has aged. The voices imprinted wisdom deep in his heart, etched it, and carved it, so he can never forget. So he never could.  
  
The pain lives on in him.  
  
It's in his eyes.  
  
His eyes are guarded by emerald steel, unmoving, unflinching, unfeeling. They hide him from the world, hide him from everything and everyone.  
  
And, yet, though they are steely and closed, they are dull, devoid of the light that shone through them once-two years ago. Two years, or two lifetimes, I don't really think it matters to him. They betray exhaustion, weariness, and exasperation, somehow. He has seen more than he could ever hope or need to see. More than anyone could ever need to see.  
  
They have been dulled by the fight. The constant, ongoing battle between him, and everyone else who relies on him, yet goes against him.  
  
And, the burn with intensity, anger ablaze in their cold metallic depths. They glint, ever so often, with the cold flash of evil malice, hatred fueled by constant dependence, excessive worry, and loss.  
  
His eyes are an old man's eyes. They are eyes that are worn with age; alight with powerful, yet painful realizations; tired, and dying, but won't die. His eyes are still alive, still alive, kept animated by nothing more than that malicious metallic glare.  
  
I asked him, ages ago-two weeks ago-why he takes the duty of You-Know-Who's defeat upon himself. Why he would, when there are other, more powerful wizards out there.  
  
"It's what's logical, Herm," he answered. "It is what happened once, and then twice, and then thrice. And that's what they expect to happen. They expect it to keep on going until it ends."  
  
"When will it?" I challenged him.  
  
All he did was regard me with a smile, the same one he's been bestowing upon us this year. The small, sad, slightly contorted grin.  
  
"Why are you so sad, then?" I asked him, changing the subject. "You seem to have accepted everything. What do you detest, Harry?"  
  
His eyes momentarily lost that quality I disliked so much, and for the briefest, fleeting moment-Harry came back. And he disappeared again. "That it's me, Herm. That it's me. That it's I who has to defeat Voldemort (I flinched at the sound of the name). It is entirely my honor, and mine alone, because I am the Boy Who Lived. Because I lived. Just for that bloody reason. Because I lived. I didn't reduce him, I didn't cast some bloody complicated spell on my own--that was my mum. And what did I do? I just sat there and lived, while my parents dropped dead, because of me."  
  
I felt tears sting my eyes, and fought the urge to give him a hug. I couldn't. Not now. It will make him more vulnerable. It will destroy him. If I hug him, torrent after torrent of tears and sorrow will crash over us both. And we can't afford to have that happen to us.  
  
He stared at the ground, and chuckled mirthlessly. "Blimey, Herm. Just because I LIVED doesn't mean it's my doing."  
  
He's right, of course.  
  
He isn't doing too well this year, with the memory of Cedric haunting the halls of Hogwarts, like this. He's gone through the self-bashing phase and longer than expected. Much, much longer.  
  
Ron and I, we do our best to be there for him. Normally, I would say "cheer him up," but I know that there's not chance of doing that. We make everything as routine as possible for him. Heck, we even get into rows for his entertainment.  
  
Now, if the bloke actually spent time in his body, observing the physical world, our plan might have bloody worked.  
  
But he isn't, and it didn't.  
  
It hurts me to see him like this. It hurts me to see a fifteen-year-old's eyes look cold and dull and old.  
  
It hurts me to see the eyes that have seen more than two lifetimes' worth of sorrow.  
  
What hurts me the most is that those eyes belong to my best friend.  
  
Harry's fifteen, like Ron and I, yet his eyes betray age. They betray depth and age, completely unfathomed, even by his friends.  
  
His eyes twinkle in wisdom, dull in pain, close in the fear that cannot be.  
  
His eyes have aged a hundred years.  
  
I thought back to the conversation we had, and my stomach clenched at the memory of his smile-I understood.  
  
Harry James Potter-my best friend, confidante and protector-because of a duty he didn't particularly want, or deserve-aged a hundred more years in that moment when he realized that what he's doing will keep on going until it ends.  
  
Until he dies. 


End file.
